


Off Day

by gayreclinetime



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, bruce is autistic, i mean. as much as there can be in a relationship with a guy like bruce wayne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 10:00:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5623288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayreclinetime/pseuds/gayreclinetime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce gets the very distinct feeling it's going to be a bad day when he, very literally, wakes up on the wrong side of the bed. The realization is even more disappointing because Clark is in bed with him, sleeping soundly, arms slung around him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Off Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ShibaScarf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShibaScarf/gifts).



> this is a late christmas gift for my buddy shibascarf, who really loves bruce wayne, especially emotionally constipated bruce wayne with people significantly less emotionally constipated with him. so merry christmas shibe!
> 
> to anyone else reading this, if things seem bizarre or kind of vague in the fic, let me clarify that i am a) autistic and b) i based a lot of this off my own experiences with shut downs and ect, which, subjectively.. can be kind of hard to pin down. sorry y'all.

   Bruce gets the very distinct feeling it's going to be a bad day when he, very literally, wakes up on the wrong side of the bed. The realization is even more disappointing because Clark is in bed with him, sleeping soundly, arms slung around him. His hair's a mess, and he's snoring, just lightly, face slack and relaxed. It's nice, for all of  two seconds, before the shared body heat between them makes Bruce's skin clammy. At that point his nerves are burning and every inch of his skin crawls, and he, with no small ounce of regret in the back of his mind, rolls out of bed and tries to untangle himself from limbs and covers as discreetly as possible.

   The bad day theory is fully cemented when Bruce realizes he's slept in much longer than he wanted to. The hitch in his routine transfers his mood from bad to nothing short of totally foul, even though Alfred's seemingly taken notice of his delay enough to already have his clothing laid out. Bruce gets himself dressed, checking his shirt and suit jacket twice to make sure the seams are right and the tags are in, fingers fumbling almost to get the buttons right, carefully aligning each one. He's not much better with his tie, which turns his collar effectively into a rough, finely ironed noose, but when Bruce looks in the mirror he at least looks crisp and neat. Save for the sour expression on his face.

   He tries to force a smile in the mirror, thinking about just how much he is not up for playing smooth, playboy billionaire Bruce Wayne. The thought of it alone saps his energy, but it's not as if he's got any better options. He's faced worse than a board meeting in the morning. As exhausting and unpleasant as all the smiling, measured eye contact, and the /touching/ is, he reminds himself it's not worse than a couple of cracked ribs or a good five hours in a sweaty, vaguely blood-crusted bat suit.

   Though, it occurs to him as he walks out the door, with his luck, he still probably has that in store.

 

***

 

   Clark is just about certain Bruce is having a bad day, watching the way he's been lurking around the watch tower, more so than usual. He wishes he could have made sure earlier, when Bruce must've gotten up this morning, but even when both of them had gone to bed Clark knew waking up next to him was a gamble; it was nigh impossible to get him anywhere near bed properly in the first place. A brisk conversation with Alfred after he had woken up had gotten Clark worried that Bruce must be having one of his off days, and now that he could see the caped crusader himself for the first time all day- well, there wasn't much room for doubt.

   It was a change that was hard to pick up if you didn't know the man well, but Clark had known Bruce for years now, and better than his friend probably would have liked to believe. Bruce was just short of sulking, cape particularly tight around himself, impatient set in his jaw. He was curt and clipped in his speech- even for him- and yet, contrarily, Clark could tell he had to think about putting his sentences in order. Overall, he had a sort of cornered air.

   Anybody who noticed seemed to steer clear of him- not that Clark could blame them, really- and anyone who didn't probably put it down to Batman Trademarked Broodiness. With the lack of company, Clark decided to try his luck, and approached Bruce, broadcasting his presence while trying not to betray his sympathy.

 

   “Rough morning?” He asks, trying to sound more casual than concerned. God forbid anybody worry about the Bat.

 

   “Barely disorienting,” Bruce relents, almost definitely playing it down. Clark can soundly assure himself that means he had a terrible morning, and probably shouldn’t be scrounging around for missions. “I’ll get over it.”

 

   The statement alone makes Clark throw all caution to the wind. “You know, I really think maybe you should go-”

   “No.” Bruce cuts him off, not even looking in his direction. His tone lets him know arguing is futile; Nothing short of Clark picking him up and tying him down is going to keep Bruce out of the fight today. He muses he could actually try that, before he remembers the list of things Batman’s remarkably escaped from. Including chains and plaster.

 

   “Alright, fine,” He yields. “But I’m coming with you. Wherever you’re going.” He hopes his tone carries at least a fraction of the finality Bruce’s had. He crosses his arms over his chest, trying to come off as a little more imposing- more Superman than Clark Kent.

 

   Bruce narrows his eyes, unsettlingly blank under his cowl, obviously displeased and, Clark can guess, feeling patronized. There seems to a moment where he debates on whether or not he should waste the mental energy, before he settles on a particularly irked expression and a begrudged grunt of agreement. He turns attentions away from Clark again and goes back to his observational lurking.

  Definitely an off day, Clark concedes.

  
  


***

 

   Bruce doesn’t consider himself the type sullenly, uselessly stew over things he hates, despite what others might say. But this is getting ridiculous.

   Guns, being flown, and being put in a humiliatingly compromising position. All in a day. All in under twenty minutes, actually, thanks to Clark’s reaction time. Even if it saved him a bullet in one or more vital organs, Bruce is feeling bitter enough tonight that he can damn Kryptonian super speed for all but embarrassing him. Somewhere he can register Clark soundly pummeling their assailants, as he tries to get up and back into the fight, before he realizes someone’s grabbed onto him. He only has a moment to process Clark’s arms firmly under his own before Bruce realizes his feet are off the ground too, and both of them are rapidly gaining altitude.

   He still finds it in himself to say, “I didn’t ask you to do that.”

   “You’re welcome,” Clark replies, raising his voice against the growing roar of the wind around them.

   The lingering smell of gunsmoke, the ringing of the shots in his ears, the burning pain along his cheek, the harsh, cool wind battering against him, and the dizzying mix he feels between frustration in being utterly useless in the fight and relief that at least it’s done; all are so simultaneous, so acute that his brain decides that’s all it can take in a day. Bruce feels himself slip into the horrible ordeal that is shut down, overloaded and feeling weary.

   He’s wishing he could practically crawl out of his skin in the time it takes Clark to reach the manor and set him down. He hadn’t realized he’d been balling up his fists so tight while in the air, or how sweaty and suffocated they are in his gloves, which he removes as quickly as he can. While the cowl does block out unwanted stimuli, to some extent, it’s beginning to dig into his skin uncomfortably. Bruce removes it, too, reasoning that it’s just him, Clark, and Alfred in the manor anyways. Though when he’s finished removing his cowl, he realizes he’s lost track of Clark.

   He takes a seat, eyes half heartedly scanning for Clark, figuring he wouldn’t have gone very far for very long. And as it stands, he is correct; Bruce finds him coming towards him, something clasped in his hands. The closer it gets and the further he inspects it, Bruce realizes it’s a first aid kit, and on instinct makes a perturbed expression, first at the kit, and then at Clark.

 

   “Your cheek is bleeding more than it should be. I have to at least clean it and check it out,” Clark explains kindly, keeping himself level. He’s figured out by now Bruce prefers a very short list of people to tend to his wounds, but won’t reject something as simple as cleaning or bandaging nicks and scratches. He thinks about it for a moment, before he immediately realizes he doesn’t have the energy or the right mind to, and resolves he’ll send Clark to get Alfred in the case his wound might need stitches or otherwise. He spares a quick, curt nod, and slouches back, letting Clark dig for cotton balls and disinfectant.

 

   He is, thankfully, spared from any conversation about the fight, his day, or either of their lives. Clark cups his opposite cheek, lightly as he can, and very gently begins wiping away the blood from his other. It’s hardly ideal, but definitely not the worst sensation he’ experiencing in the given moment- besides, Bruce is aware Clark has to restrain himself constantly to great extent. He’s seen the guy bend gun barrels like they were made from putty, seen bullets bounce off of him like foam pellets, and for someone who can do all that and more to dab at Bruce’s cheek so carefully; He would be, and probably will be, lying to say it didn’t stir up something warm under his skin and in the back of his mind. Or it would, if his brain weren’t so scrambled at present.

 

   “Well, you definitely don’t need stitches,” Clark says at last, breaking the silence. He has a small, relieved smile on his face. “But it’ll probably bleed some more. Here.”

 

   Bruce is unfocused but not entirely ungrateful when Clark sticks two band aids on his cheek, in an almost sloppily juvenile cross. While it takes a moment to adjust, he’s glad he doesn’t have to use his hands to maintain any pressure- even in his state, he’s sure he’d be embarrassed if he caught his hands shaking or fumbling with something so easy, even though he knows Clark wouldn’t think anything of it. That’s another thing Bruce is aware of, the fact Clark has to deal with sensory distractions of his own. He knows it’s much more different than Bruce’s situation, considering it’s something he can actually learn to tune out, and doesn’t have an inclination to being overwhelmed just simply because… he just  _ is _ . While Clark’s distractions are probably more intense- considering if Bruce had to hear everybody’s heart beat, deep breathing, and the shifting of their clothing at even the slight movement on top of everything else, he’d go a step further than just sitting in the fortress of solitude- he seems to work with them better. All the same, he can take some small, secret comfort in thinking, or at the very least projecting, that both of their struggles are more similar than different.

   For a while, both of them are in still silence. It’s not so uncomfortable (considering how Bruce feels), with Clark checking Bruce for anything more than bruises. He tolerates it, trying to shake the heavy discomfort of his shut down, focusing as much as he can on one thing in one place. His eyes find smooth shape of Clark’s jaw, up to his cheeks, bunched up just slightly around the curve of his relieved smile. Then it shifts, somehow, in a way Bruce can’t place. He doesn’t even consider Clark might be just a little put off by all the starring, especially from someone who looks like anything between a considerably vexed Batman to an unsettlingly empty body.

 

   “Yes or no,” Clark breaks the silence, speaking softly; almost apologetically for all the talking he’s made Bruce endure for the night. “Are you going to at least  _ try  _ to go to sleep at a decent time?”

 

   Bruce narrows his eyes, determined and by all means  _ not  _ petulant, already trying to rise to his feet. Clark puts a gentle, but very firm hand on Bruce’s shoulder, persuading him to sit back down.

 

   “Okay, fine,” He amends, visibly backpedaling. “Will you at least let yourself rest while you wait this out? Yes or no?”

 

   Bruce thinks about it (and he really, really does have to think about it), before he gives Clark a reluctant nod. That seems to satisfy him enough. The relieved smile gradually returns. Maybe becoming slightly fond, and just shy of exasperated, too.

 

   “Take it easy, Bruce.” He says faintly, before turning to leave Bruce to himself.

 

   In silence, Bruce recovers, though not all at once. He keeps the cowl and gloves off, even though every texture he encounters somehow becomes the next most awful thing he’s ever touched. He lets Alfred prepare dinner, and even eats it, even if he does so slowly and begrudgingly, against the protests of his own stomach. When he decides he’s well enough, in the loosest definition of the word, he goes down to the batcave and puts himself to work. He has lost time to make up for.

   Clark’s last words repeat themselves in his head as he works, less as a chorus of guilt, and more as a natural response. In the back of his mind, he admits he does appreciate the sentiment.

   Even as he continues to ignore it.

**Author's Note:**

> first time writing either bruce or clark and generally very full of headcanons, but if youre interested in more fics about neurodivergent superheroes and wanna see more hit me the fuck up


End file.
